


Step into the daylight (and let it go)

by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actor Derek Hale, Blow Jobs, Carly Rae Jepsen References, Claiming Bites, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Derek hale speaks polish, Hollywood, Insomnia, Language Kink, M/M, Polyglot Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dearericbittle
Summary: Stiles is a grad student with serious insomnia. So when he sees a stranger in need of help, he thinks it’ll be a good way to alleviate the boredom. How the hell was he supposed to know that the weird guy with the baseball cap was a famous actor (and a fucking werewolf)? He just keeps running into the guy. Coincidence? Stiles thinks not.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1542





	Step into the daylight (and let it go)

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek bingo: Insomnia, Overworked, Hollywood
> 
> Apologies for my Polish that was strictly lifted from the internet. Should be understandable even if you don't speak it. Which I don't, so.

Stiles and sleep have a complicated relationship. And it’s been the longest relationship he’s ever been in, too, so that’s always fun. 

Ever since he was a kid, ever since his mom died and the world got a little darker, Stiles has used sleep as a way to escape from his real life problems. And ever since he turned sixteen and found out that the monsters under the bed were actually real, his relationship with sleep turned into the reason why Facebook has that “it’s complicated” option. 

He takes melatonin like a good boy, because ADHD and sleep issues have a not so complicated close relationship that he is somehow always the innocent third party to. He tries the sleep schedule and the sleep hygiene thing, but it’s not like most werewolves and kanimas and other monsters bother to check his schedule before attempting to kill his friends - so he ends up fucking himself over in a million ways. 

Now that he is out of reach for most of the monsters, insomnia remains his constant friend and companion. He falls asleep with great difficulty, only to wake up after an hour and find that he cannot for the life of him fall back asleep. Sometimes he does not sleep at all. 

Tonight is one of those nights, and he is sure that he might as well spend the time in a more productive manner, rather than staring at his boring-ass ceiling and hoping his tossing and turning doesn’t wake his roommate - again. He is about two nights away from getting kicked out for being the worst, Stiles is sure of that much. 

So out he goes, into the dark LA night, exploring all-night stores and observing people who actually look like they know what they’re doing. 

Stiles has to wonder what that’s like. Really, someone tell him what that’s like so he can at least fake it until he makes it. Or just keeps faking it - he’s good at that much, because his Dad actually seems less worried about him these days. 

Maybe now that he’s gotten away from all the wolf stuff, he’s a good liar again. That would be nice. 

He just wishes that the tradeoff wasn’t insomnia and loneliness. 

“Fuck,” he hears a stranger staring forlornly at the all-night store. 

The stranger is broad, strong, and wearing a stupid baseball cap that is clearly meant to hide some kind of nefarious purpose - Stiles isn’t an idiot. The leather jacket and the ball cap and the dark clothes… It all smells like thievery to him. The bad kind of shenanigans. 

“Dude,” Stiles finds his mouth is once again five steps ahead of his brain. “I know this store probably seems like an excellent target, but the protection is actually rock solid.” 

There is a circle of mountain ash surrounding the store - Stiles sensed it the first time he came in here and he’s pointedly not commented on it to anyone. Because he promised his Dad that he was not getting involved in any more supernatural shenanigans. Not without a Sheriff to protect him, or a semblance of a pack that he’d never really been a part of. 

“Right now it’s protecting me from food and water,” the stranger basically growls at him. 

Werewolf. This guy is a werewolf. Really, is Stiles werewolf catnip now? Is there such a thing as werewolf catnip? Is that something he needs to look up in the digital bestiary he still carefully maintains without his father’s knowledge? Because it’s starting to get a little ridiculous that Stiles’ grad school advisor and his neighbor and his boss at the library are all wolves. They don’t know he knows, and he will never tell them - but it’s still more than a little suspicious. 

And now there’s this guy. And Stiles has no idea what to do about him. But if he really can’t go into a store when he needs food, well… Stiles is his mother’s son. He can’t just stand there and do nothing. Even though he’s probably just as suspicious of the wolf’s intentions as his Dad would be. He’s just a little more willing to cut the guy a break. 

Only a little, though. 

“Sure,” Stiles is only about ten percent sure that this guy isn’t a criminal. “How about you give me the cash and your grocery list, and I’ll get it for you, Sourwolf.” 

As expected, the response to the nickname is not overwhelmingly positive. The werewolf growls, and Stiles is left staring into bright blue eyes. He knows what blue eyes mean in a wolf, and while he probably should be really fucking terrified… he just isn’t. Not when the werewolf is the one who looks terrified. Of a poor fragile human like Stiles. 

“It’s just a very generous offer, dude,” Stiles continues, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “Nothing up my sleeves. I’m just better with the mountain ash, and I’m also in a complicated relationship with sleep at the moment, so I could use some entertainment. Though if you’re willing to buy me breakfast as a thank you I won’t say no. Though, is it really breakfast if it’s consumed at four AM? For me breakfast is more of a state of mind, really, and less of a - okay, I see we’re not into sharing opinions. I would offer to shut up, but that would make me a liar, because I haven’t slept in at least forty-eight hours and my Adderall is acting up.” 

Ah yes, he’s at the rambling stage now, that should be fun. This poor Stranger Wolf really has no idea what he is in for. But so far he hasn’t left yet, even though he is still hiding his face underneath that ball cap - Stiles thinks there’s a baseball logo on it, but he knows shit about the sport. Other than the fact that the Mets are the best - but that’s his Dad’s indoctrination talking. 

This stranger just really wants to remain a stranger, huh? 

“Here,” the stranger offers a quickly scribbled list, and a couple of twenty dollar bills. “You can keep the change. “Just don’t tell them you’re buying it for me.” 

The man has nice hands, and Stiles has to bite his lip to keep from commenting on that, or on the lack of claws. Apparently this guy has solid control over his shift - apart from the earlier snag with the blue eyes - which is something Stiles really hasn’t seen much of before. Scott has always been fucking terrible at keeping his secret identity hidden. Stiles has no idea how he managed to date Allison for weeks on end before her family figured it out. 

“Wouldn’t do that,” Stiles protests. “I don’t even know who you are.” 

More tugging at that stupid baseball cap, and Stiles is about thirty-seven percent sure that his werewolf status is not the only thing that the stranger is hiding from him. But hey, Stiles isn’t stupid enough to dig into that mystery - not right now anyway - and there is a little bit of cash in it for him. Which he’ll need when his roommate kicks him out. 

Any day now. 

“Good,” the stranger says, shoving the bills at Stiles. “Now could you - I need - I have places I need to be. Soon. So if you could get moving, that would be… great.” 

For a second there Stiles is tempted to move slowly, just to be a dick. Teenage Stiles totally would have, but now he’s grad student Stiles and he’s supposedly a better person. Besides, maybe the money he’ll get out of it will get him something to keep himself entertained. 

Nah, he needs to make sensible decisions. Saving up for a new place - maybe a shoebox without a roommate this time? That is probably the sensible thing to do here. 

Too bad Stiles was really bad at being sensible. 

“Yes, sir,” Stiles salutes sloppily and takes the cash and note. 

Warm hands. Warm, wolf hands. And Stiles is not going to think too much about how nice it is to feel that again. So-Cal isn’t actually cold - it’s a lot better than Beacon Hills - but he was used to being around wolves, who always ran a little hot. 

It’s a stupid reminder of a life that isn’t his anymore, and never really was. 

He looks down at the list when he steps into the store, and finds only harmless food items that the wolf probably isn’t even getting for himself. Maybe for a family member or a partner? A colleague or a friend? But there is no way that werewolves like energy drinks - they don’t even work on them, because their metabolism is so different. 

Stiles however, he had a real energy drink dependency back in the day that he’s mostly managed to wean himself off of in the last few years. Somehow there are less all nighters in college than there were in high school - probably the less werewolf shenanigans thing. 

Still, it means that it’s hardly suspicious for a guy like him - looking like the quintessential college student, out for a study break - to purchase a bunch of junk food and energy drinks. The stranger specified the brand and details for every item, and Stiles is stupidly endeared by it. Though, this being Hollywood, he wonders if the stranger isn’t a PA or some other kind of assistant, who has to get the exact right thing or he’ll be fucked. 

It wouldn’t surprise him. 

Werewolf assistant isn’t a very glamorous career though - and the guy is built more like a werewolf bodyguard. Now that is a career that makes sense for a wolf. 

“Need help finding anything?” The middle-aged man behind the counter is keeping a close eye on Stiles. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” 

Sure, most of the store clerks in this place are helpful, but this guy is taking it to a whole new level. It’s like he’s suspicious of Stiles, which is stupid, because Stiles has already passed the most important test: the mountain ash. He didn’t even fuck with it, even though he could have and he really enjoys messing with asshole hunter types. It’s just that he doesn’t know if this is just a worried guy trying to keep himself safe in a dangerous city, or an asshole hunter. 

The suspicion is making him wonder if it’s the latter. But he’s only twenty-four percent sure. 

“Not usually out this late,” Stiles goes for some friendly small talk. “I’m more of a daylight person, usually. But well, college is a fickle mistress, and there is a lot of work to be done before the dawn. Thanks for the offer, though. I’ll be out in a jiffy. Oh, I love that word.” 

He crouches down a little to get the right brand of sugary goodness for his werewolf non-friend, and then checks the list one final time. Yep, looks like that’s all. He’s pretty good at this, maybe he should set up an arrangement with the wolf. He doesn’t mind being the assistant’s assistant if there’s money and/or entertainment in it for him - though preferably both. 

“You’re a weird kid,” the man comments. 

“That’s what my Dad says,” Stiles pretends to commiserate, placing his wares on the counter for the clerk to scan. “He likes keeping track of me, but apparently local Sheriffs can’t get the LAPD to do random patrols just because they’re worried about their only child.” 

Stiles shrugs, as if to say “what can you do” and then smiles at the clerk, hoping it makes him seem harmless. Which he is, technically. Sort of. Maybe. If he keeps his Spark on a very tight leash - not that a guy like this will know what a Spark can do. 

Very few people who aren’t Sparks themselves know. 

The clerk bags his purchases and as Stiles checks out the total, he realizes that the stranger gave him way too much. He’s got at least thirty dollars left over, and while Stiles would happily take a fiver or a tenner for a simple favor like this one, thirty bucks seems like a bit much. Especially from someone who’s probably paying for it out of pocket. 

“Thanks,” Stiles smiles again. “Have a good night.” 

He walks out without another look back, because well, he does not want to see the look on the clerk’s face - because at this point Stiles is about sixty percent sure that this guy is at least related to some hunters. The way he visibly relaxed when Stiles mentioned having a Dad in law enforcement is a solid tell. That and the gun he was hiding underneath the register. 

There was no real smell of wolfsbane, but Stiles’ sense of smell isn’t as good as a wolf’s. 

“Hey buddy,” he heads straight for where he left the stranger. “I got all your stuff, and I think you gave me way too much money. I can’t take this. I’m sure your boss left really exact instructions about the junk you just had me buy, but you’re probably not getting reimbursed for this, right? It wouldn’t be right for me to do that. Sorry, apparently my morals are fucked like that.” 

The stranger chuckles, suddenly finding Stiles amusing somehow. Stiles hands him the bags and tries to push the money at him. The stranger accepts the bags of junk food and drinks, but not the cash. Stiles is instantly annoyed at him. 

“Keep it,” the stranger fiddles with the baseball cap again. 

A car drives by, and the headlights allow Stiles to look straight into the eyes of… MTV Movie Award winner and Golden Globe nominee Derek fucking Hale. 

“What the fuck?” 

Stiles is not subtle, and Derek turns around and leaves. 

“What the fuck?” Stiles shouts after him. 

Derek Hale is a werewolf?

* * *

For a couple of days, Stiles considers that his meeting with one of the hottest actors in Hollywood right now might be an insomnia-induced hallucination. It would not be the first time Stiles had imagined meeting a celebrity in a weird place. Because there was no way that Jennifer Aniston came into the library seconds after it opened only to tell him that Ross was a jerk and she’d been an idiot not to go to Paris. 

His hallucination was not wrong, but it also was not real. 

Right, not the point. Because Derek Hale was real - is real. And he is really a werewolf, because five days after their last encounter, Stiles almost runs into him outside of a twenty-four hour diner he discovered the night before. 

“It’s you,” Stiles is physically incapable of being subtle about anything. “Sourwolf.” 

Okay, clearly Derek Hale is not a fan of that nickname, and even though insulting a celebrity is probably a bad idea, Stiles also cannot stop himself from being, well… himself. Sure, he’s not going to turn into a stalker, or ask for a picture or an autograph (even though he is dying to have proof of this encounter), but he is about ninety-three percent sure that it will only take him a minute or so to say something that accidentally offends the great Derek Hale. 

“Don’t,” Derek Hale basically shushes him. 

“I won’t use your name,” Stiles tries a sloppy version of the Boy Scout promise. “Promise.” 

He has never been a Boy Scout. Not even for a little while, because apparently no one thought it was a good idea for little Mischief to take his shtick to the woods. Supposedly, his parents had enough of a problem on their hands without allowing him free reign of the Preserve. Sure, Boy Scouts are supposed to have supervision when going into nature, but even at that age Stiles had already been a master escape artist. 

And knowing what he knows now - the whole ‘the Preserve is filled with free-range werewolves’ thing - it was probably a smart decision not to put him smack dab in the middle of all that. Even though he always feels like a bit of a fraud doing the salute. 

He did manage to avoid the sexism and homophobia inherent in the organisa- and what was he talking about again? Who was he - Derek Hale. The sour wolf himself. In the flesh. 

Stiles would elaborate on that flesh, but with this approach it would just make him sound like a… friend of Hannibal’s. And, yeah, no. That’s not… Just no. 

“Sourwolf?” Derek Hale is giving him some serious brow here. 

“No?” Stiles is happy to be a little shit about this. “You don’t like it? I would be happy to come up with a better nickname for you, big guy. Yeah, big guy. You don’t seem to like dude.” 

Too much, with the ‘big guy’ thing? Probably. But too much is basically where Stiles lives - especially when it’s the middle of the night and he’s sleep-deprived. 

“No nicknames,” Derek Hale tells him. 

“But you told me not to use your name,” Stiles grins, spotting an opportunity for some fun to be had. “What am I supposed to call you if I can’t use your name or a nickname? Should I call you something like… Miguel? Yeah, I’m definitely going to call you Miguel. You look like you could be a Miguel. You can even be my cousin. My cousin Miguel.” 

And now he’s said the name Miguel so much it has lost all meaning. Oh well. 

The name is not as much of a success for Derek Hale as it is for Stiles - and yes, he is going to continue to use the man’s full name in his mind, because this is Derek fucking Hale. It’s a good thing that Stiles has no friends in LA to talk to about this. That and Stiles has gotten pretty damn good at maintaining the secret identities of his friends. And Derek fucking Hale is his friend now - he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. 

“Fine,” Derek Hale finally says, reluctantly. “Miguel. But we are not related. Not unless you’re actually fluent in Spanish.  _ Gringo _ .” 

Stiles tries not to get too visibly turned on at the reveal of another one of Derek Hale’s many talents - it’s just that Stiles knows how hard (oh, for  _ fuck _ ’s sake) it is to maintain fluency in a language other than English. His Polish has really suffered over the course of the last few years. 

His Babcia can never know about that. 

“Well, I bet you don’t speak Polish,” Stiles huffs under his breath. 

“ _ Nie mówię po polsku _ ,” Derek shrugs with his response. 

That fucking liar - he totally speaks Polish, even though he says he doesn’t. 

He says it in perfect fucking Polish - hardly even an accent at all - which means that Stiles is going to have to blow him. Well, maybe not out here on the street, but he is open to a private moment in the diner bathroom. If Derek is up for it (oh, fucking  _ hell _ , his brain today). Stiles is very much up for it, which is probably why Derek Hale is giving him a Look - with a capital L. 

Because sometimes Stiles forgets that werewolves can smell that kind of thing - he hasn’t exactly been part of a pack lately, even though he still finds himself surrounded by werewolves somehow. Stiles Stilinski: werewolf catnip. Werewolf magnet? Something like that. 

“Really?” Derek Hale is not too impressed by Stiles’... everything. 

“Polyglots do it for me,” Stiles is not really all that ashamed of this particular kink. “Your accent is almost as good as mine, and I’m part Polish with a very strict _Babcia_ who was very happy when I did a semester abroad during undergrad. Like, dude, you are ridiculous. Miguel. Dude.” 

They’re finally heading inside now - good, because standing outside for much longer would make them look like the biggest of freaks, and Stiles is only in the top ten freaks, really. That and Derek Hale - yes, still with the full name - probably does not want to be noticed just because his weird companion is less than subtle. Though calling himself Derek Hale’s companion might be stretching the truth a little. Derek Hale does not appear to be aware (a  _ were _ ? Fuck, his brain really is the worst) that they are totally friends now. Stiles refuses to enlighten him, though, because that would actually just give him the opportunity to deny it. And there is no way Stiles is going to let that happen. 

“Dude,” Derek Hale repeats, rolling his eyes like a true master of sass. 

“You know you can call me Stiles, right?” Stiles suddenly realizes that he never really introduced himself to Derek Hale. “But dude’s good too. As long as you don’t call me Mieczyslaw, or Genim, or any of my good Polish boy names. They just don’t suit me.” 

Mieczyslaw Genim Stilinski - that’s not a name that does well in a typical American classroom, and not a name that allows him to blend in. And he’s already enough of a freak without the name thing added on to it, so Stiles is a nice, harmless nickname with none of the baggage associated with his Mom and her family… And other things he will not name. 

Why did he even tell Derek Hale his real name? He had a chance to be cool here, even if it is just for a hot second. 

“Sword of glory?” Derek Hale somehow knows the meaning of his fucking name. “Yeah, I think you’re more of a Przemyslaw. A trickster.” 

Oh, maybe that’s why. Because Derek  _ fucking _ Hale.  _ Fuck _ . Because that does things to him. Derek Hale does things to him, and not just because he’s stupidly gorgeous. Right now it’s mostly the polyglot thing and the brains. Stiles always gets hot for smart people. 

And apparently the former action star turned serious actor has a set of brains that Stiles just wants to… Yeah, no, don’t go there. There is no way to go but down (going down, yep, he can hear that too). He’s about eighty-seven percent sure that’s a bad route to go down. 

“Alright, that’s it,” Stiles has had enough. “Do you have anywhere to be? Because I’m like five seconds away from dragging you to the bathroom and getting on my knees. Are you trying to hit all of my kinks in one go or is that just a coincidence? Doesn’t matter. Either way, dude, I’m happy to blow your mind. More than happy. And yeah, this is probably not a conversation you wanna have in public, do you Miguel? Sorry about that.” 

Hopefully Derek Hale is the only werewolf in the establishment at the moment, because while Stiles has very little shame, he really doesn’t want the imminent rejection to be obvious to anyone but him and the person who’s rejecting him. In ten, nine, eight…

“There’s something wrong with you,” Derek Hale tells him. 

“Many things, actually,” Stiles tries not to get offended. “Blowjob skills not being one of those things, and I’m sorry I’ll stop hitting on you in three, two…” 

Yeah, maybe he just has to get all of this out of his system - there are probably about a dozen other comments stuck in his head that he has to push back into the area of his brain that has an actual fucking filter. Even though at the moment that appears to be a particularly fucking tiny area in his brain. Just about everything that pops into his head has to do with various things about Derek Hale that he is really starting to like. 

What can he say, the man just pushes all of his buttons. 

“I didn’t say you had to stop,” Derek Hale is smirking at him. “You’re probably the first person who’s been more interested in my brain than in my body or my money or my fame. I’ve heard worse. A lot worse. At least you’re honest about it.” 

Most people would have run off after a conversation like this one, right? Like, that’s not just his biased view after most of his dates in high school and college. Most people don’t like to be propositioned by someone who’s basically a stranger - okay, well, some people at frat parties do, but they don’t like to be propositioned by Stiles, who always manages to get weird about it and say things in public instead of whispering them sexily into someone’s ear. 

Yeah, that just doesn’t sound like a thing that Stiles would be capable of. 

“Thanks?” Stiles thinks that might actually have been a compliment. 

“I have to go back to work soon,” Derek continues. “I’m stuck on night shoots for a while, and my days are about sixteen hours. So not now, but maybe…” 

Wow, okay, so that’s even worse than grad school. That is bonkers, even for a werewolf. How is Derek not seriously overworked by now? Though, maybe he is, and maybe that’s why Stiles keeps running into him in the middle of the night (two is a coincidence, and three will make a pattern). Maybe he is overworked and losing it and not immediately refusing Stiles. 

Those two things have to be related to each other. 

“That’s not a no,” Stiles says, dumbly. 

“Very sharp,” Derek Hale is actually making fun of him, that asshole. 

Such a shame that Stiles is actually into that - like, someone who can keep up with him and doesn’t just let him steamroll them. Stiles has a tendency to do that, because he’s used to being the one with the plan, and the smartest person in the group (only because Lydia Martin never really noticed his existence, of course). Scott has never been able to keep up on the intellectual level - also, he continues to be terrible at plans. 

But apparently that’s not Stiles’ problem anymore. 

“So, you, me, phone, maybe?” Stiles tries the ‘putting words into sentences’ thing. “To use the immortal words of Carly Rae: I just met you, and this is crazy, but…” 

Derek Hale - should he just call him Derek now if they’re going to end up having sex at some point? Asking for a friend - interrupts him before he can finish the song. Which is kind of disappointing, because that’s a solid song, okay?

“Just give me your number,” Derek almost throws his phone at Stiles. 

“Yes, good,” Stiles nods, and enters his number with unsteady hands. “Call me maybe? Or text me? I might have classes. And I’m supposed to be a responsible TA and all that. But yeah.” 

Shit, he has to pinch himself because there is no way that this is actually happening. But even if it is a hallucination, at least it’s a nice one. There have been much worse ones, ones that he prefers not to think about even now - so he’d rather imagine that Derek fucking Hale would actually want to spend time with him, even if it’s just sex and midnight grocery runs. It’s miles and miles better than anything else he’s got going on, really. 

“You’re very responsible,” Derek Hale is making fun of him, clearly. 

“They put me in charge of the impressionable freshmen,” Stiles drops down into a booth and doesn’t even bother to look at a menu. “That means I’m more responsible than they are, at least. Which, let me tell you, is a huge step up. I might actually get my shit together at some point. It’s stunning and unexpected, but it might actually happen.” 

Sure, Stiles is never going to have an MTV Movie Award, or any of the many awards that Derek is going to win in the next few years, but he might actually become a decent research librarian, helping many a desperate student in their hour of need. He’s a Google-Fu master and a whiz with the Dewey decimal system - at least he has that over Derek. Presumably. Who knows, maybe Derek really is the superior being there too. 

For some reason, Stiles would no longer be surprised at that. 

“Fingers crossed,” Derek’s deadpan is glorious. “I’d love to stay and make fun of you some more, but they expect me on set. And I owe my wardrobe and makeup assistant some junk food. I’m pretty sure Erica is actually going to kill me if I come to set empty handed.” 

Stiles likes this girl already. A healthy appreciation for unhealthy food goes a long way with him - always has and always will. It is not something that he will admit to around his Dad, because around his Dad he is happy to call salad his favorite food - but everyone knows that curly fries are a gift from the Gods and should be consumed often and in epic volume. 

Not that Derek seems to understand that - he’s wearing layers again, but it’s still pretty obvious that his abs are fucking ridiculous. And yes, Stiles would happily lick them, but that’s not the main attraction here. And he’s getting sidetracked again. 

“You don’t want to piss off the person who’s in charge of making you look pretty,” Stiles nods sagely. “I’m sure her job is really hard.” 

Derek actually laughs at that - and with that, Stiles has actually made Derek Hale laugh. How is he supposed to get some kind of evidence of this? No one would ever believe him without evidence - heck, no one is going to believe him even if he does have evidence of this special moment, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

It doesn’t last nearly long enough, though. And Derek Hale is ridiculously attractive when he laughs - those caterpillars he calls eyebrows aren’t nearly as intimidating when the bunny teeth come out to play. And Jesus,  _ fuck _ , Stiles really wants to blow him now. Because fucking bunny teeth? Adorable. And really fucking rude. Just, unfair. 

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking of now?” Derek is doing the long suffering thing again, even though he’s only met Stiles twice now. 

“Your bunny teeth are adorable,” Stiles still hasn’t shoved the thoughts back into the part of his brain that has a filter. “I want you to smile while I blow you. Which is definitely happening. Later. At some point. When you’re ready. Anyway... Have fun at work, say hi to Erica for me and tell her she’s doing the Lord’s work and she deserves a raise. Okay, I think I’m done.” 

A hint of a smile this time, which he thinks he still totally deserves points for. Because Derek Hale does not smile enough - not when there’s no camera on him, anyway. Apparently his default mode is grumpy AF, and while Stiles is really into that for no reason at all, the smile is so much better. Stiles would happily embarrass himself all the time just to see it. 

Which, to be honest, sounds like a very realistic prediction of what will happen if they actually hang out more. Like, a hundred and nineteen percent possibility. 

“Are you done?” Derek asks. “Are you really?” 

And no, he’s really, really not. But maybe he can make it long enough for Derek to pick up the order that is apparently already waiting for him. And then when Derek is gone, doing that superstar thing, Stiles can die on the outside as well as on the inside because Derek fucking Hale is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced and Stiles still hasn’t even gotten a good look at his face in real life. Because priorities - that brain, that smile, that… okay, slow your roll, Stiles. 

“That’s a no,” Derek seems to understand him right away. “You can text me if you think of anything else. I’ll try to keep my phone away from prying eyes. Your texts probably aren’t safe for work. Or safe for anything.”

Good guess. Really, solid guess. The best guess. 

“You’re so smart,” Stiles tries not to be too annoyed about it. 

Because he’s happy, even though it’s the middle of the night and he’s still not really sleeping and his roommate still isn’t happy with him, and neither of those things is going to change any time soon, but at least there’s a stupidly smart movie star willing to make fun of him. Derek fucking Hale is willing to have Stiles text him stupid come-ons - because honestly, that’s what he’s signing on for here. It’s the highlight of his day, his week, his month, even his year. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Derek tosses over his shoulder. “And don’t forget to order something when you’re done imagining what you’ll do to me next time we see each other.” 

So yeah, Stiles watches him walk away, because it’s a nice thing to look at, and Stiles really likes nice things when he can get them. His mind is already hard at work though, thinking about what he can text Derek. 

Though Derek has to text him first. Stiles doesn’t have his number. 

Stiles sinks further into his seat and waits for the extremely bored waitress to finally make her way over to him. Before she gets there, though, his phone buzzes in his pocket, a few times in rapid succession. Stiles does a little bit of an awkward dance, because apparently his phone had been a bit closer to his dick than he’d remembered. 

Not necessarily a bad thing, but very awkward in public. 

Very awkward in public, the Stiles Stilinski story. 

_ Cześć Mieczyslaw _

_ Miło mi _

_ Please don’t make a spectacle of yourself. I’d like to be able to come back to that diner.  _

He lets his head hit the table, just to give himself a little bit of a reality check. Because apparently this is actually happening. His head hurts, so it’s real. 

_ No promises, Miguel _

* * *

Of course this is when Derek goes from merely overworked to completely slammed as they finish shooting, so texting (or more like sexting, to be honest) is the closest Stiles gets to blowing him. At least Derek is always awake at odd hours, so he provides some entertainment in the dead of the night, when Stiles once again has trouble sleeping. 

He always has trouble sleeping these days - his sleep pattern has gone from inconsistent to non-existent pretty quickly, and he’s pretty over it. His roommate is pretty damn annoyed about it too, even though there’s really nothing that Stiles can do about it. It’s not his fault that his roommate has no fucking clue about the kind of things that Stiles has seen back home in Beacon Hills. It’s not Stiles’ fault that he came to LA with pretty severe PTSD. 

Not the fucking point - he already talks about that plenty in therapy. 

So it takes over a week for Derek to have any time for Stiles at all, and even then it is once again a ridiculous hour - after the last day of shooting, which wraps at the ridiculous hour of 2:21 AM on a Monday night. But it’s not like Stiles has anything else to do at that time, and maybe if Derek wears him out good, he’ll actually get to catch some z’s. If only. 

That’s what brings him to a local hotel at 2:48 AM, trying not to look too out of place among the wealthier guests in his better coat (the other one has holes in it) and his not completely trashed sneakers. If all else fails, he can try to pass for one of those indie musicians - Stiles can pull off the hobo look, probably. Yeah, he knows that homelessness is a real problem and that’s not even what he means. Fuck, so not the point. 

But he’s keeping his mind occupied because this elevator ride is taking for fucking ever - at least to his impatient, frazzled mind - and the only other person in the elevator with him appears to be hardcore judging him for something. Not his fault that he has to get off at the fourth floor and Stiles gets to go all the way to floor number eight. It’s a status issue, probably, because not everyone can be here to bang Derek Hale. 

Or to get banged. Stiles will take either option - or both. Both is good. 

Stiles checks his reflection again - elevators with fucking mirrors are nightmare except when they’re so damn convenient to him at the moment. He doesn’t look completely awful - Derek’s probably seen him in a worse state (during one or both of their previous encounters) - but he still fiddles with the sleeves on his coat and attempts something not completely stupid with his hair because he doesn’t usually do this with someone like Derek fucking Hale. 

The elevator doors open on the eighth floor and Stiles is about thirty-three percent sure that Derek is messing with him by giving him a random room number. Isn’t that what happens to idiots making overtures at Hollywood stars?

Except the door to room 803 opens before Stiles can knock, revealing a glowering presence that is already familiar. Derek has been waiting for him, even though Stiles got here as fast as he possibly could - he is not a patient guy, and he’s been waiting to get his hands (and mouth) on Derek for like a week now. Seems like Stiles isn’t the only one who’s been waiting. 

“Miguel,” Stiles teases, because he’s that guy. 

“Mieczyslaw,” Derek just will not let him win. “Come in. The hotel staff isn’t a fan of lurkers.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek, because he’s being a gigantic drama queen and it isn’t like there is anyone around to recognize the lurker being allowed entrance into the great Derek Hale’s hotel suite. A fucking suite - because apparently that’s necessary when Derek has hardly even been here in weeks. He’s done nothing but work and sleep for ages - at least according to Stiles’ meticulously done research on his whereabouts. It’s not creepy if he’s worried about Derek - even werewolves need sleep. 

And yes, he’s refusing to acknowledge the irony of Stiles worrying about Derek’s lack of sleep. 

“You missed me,” Stiles decides. “It’s been a whole week without my charming physical presence in your life, and you couldn’t wait. I understand, I think. I couldn’t wait for you either.” 

That is probably too honest, but it’s already out there, and Derek hasn’t kicked him out yet. In fact, Derek is pulling him further into the suite, presumably in the direction of the bedroom. Stiles really wants to be headed to the bedroom. 

He’s about ninety-seven percent sure that’s where they’re going. Because Derek Hale is actually into this, into him. It’s surprising, but it’s true. 

“I’m sorry, did you need me to say it in Polish?” Derek pushes him down onto the bed. “ _ Pocałuj mnie _ , Mieczyslaw.” 

Huh, so they have made it to the bedroom, and the bed is basically a cloud and gigantic enough for plenty of acrobatic sexcapades, which is all Stiles can ask for, really. He’s never had sex with a werewolf before, and he’s pretty damn curious to find out what will be different about it - he’s only ever heard Scott’s stories about werewolf sex, and he’d pretty much always tuned those out because, well… It’s Scott. Nobody needs to hear that. 

“I can’t believe you,” Stiles looks up at Derek, who’s already taking off his shirt. “Your asshole behavior is enough of a turn-on, and I pretty much haven’t slept since I saw you last, so, this is probably going to be less than impressive. But if you still want this…” 

Now that is just rude. Derek’s abs are in dire need of Stiles’ hands and mouth all over them, that’s for damn sure. They’re also ridiculous, but Stiles isn’t thinking too much about that, because he’s too busy trying to go along with Derek’s full-on face journey. He’s so sassy and expressive and Stiles is like a hundred and three percent sold on his personality. Make that a hundred and four, because Derek just rolled his eyes again. 

“Didn’t I just tell you to kiss me?” Derek’s brows are sarcastic and Stiles likes him too much already. “I can repeat myself, if you are too distracted.” 

Nope, Stiles can actually take a hint. Derek isn’t looking for romance here, he’s just looking for sex, and yeah, Stiles can totally do that. He just expected there to be a bit more banter before they got down to business. Right now it just feels almost clinical to him. That’s not sexy. 

“You are a ridiculous person and you’re stupidly smart,” Stiles tells him, grumbling as he kicks off his shoes. “I kind of hate you right now. So clearly I need to get my mouth on your dick.” 

Stiles always makes excellent life choices, he argues with himself as he attempts to take off his coat while staying on the bed and within arm’s reach of Derek, who appears to just be staring at Stiles. Derek is just letting him make a complete fool of himself, which is just like him, really. 

Not that Stiles actually knows him, he only thinks he does. Because really knowing someone after two brief meetings is ridiculous and impossible and he rubs his suddenly tired eyes because his mind is running a thousand miles a minute and it is getting more than a little difficult to keep up. Now that he finally has the asshole of his dreams in front of him (oh  _ fuck _ , that can still be misconstrued), Stiles is flaking. Because that is his life. 

“If you can stay awake long enough,” Derek bickers. 

While trying to hide a yawn, because Derek is no fresh-faced ingenue either, bags under his ridiculous eyes, wearing nothing but jeans that have already been unbuttoned - but not unzipped. He looks like the half-asleep version of one of Stiles’ wet dreams, and Stiles is having a little trouble keeping his eyes open long enough to keep looking at him. 

And he’s so nice to look at. And not nice to talk to, just how Stiles likes them. 

“Look who’s talking,” Stiles rolls his eyes, trying not to let them droop too much. 

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” Derek argues, bleary-eyed and stupidly angry and gorgeous. 

Maybe Derek is going to argue him to sleep - Stiles would be totally up for that. He lets his own clothes drop to the floor and scooches a bit further onto the bed, trying to lure Derek down there with him. Derek’s weight on top of him could totally make him stay still long enough to actually fall asleep. Sure, Stiles knows they’re supposed to have sex, but it wouldn’t be fair to Derek to completely blow his mind when he’s already in such a fragile state. 

That’s totally the only reason. The only one. 

“No shit,” Stiles has finally freed himself of everything but his boxer briefs. 

Once again, his best pair. No holes and no embarrassing cartoon characters. Which is pretty much a rarity for Stiles - not that it usually matters, because no one else gets to see them. It’s not like Stiles gets around much these days - or ever. 

“Werewolves can handle more than humans,” Derek argues, barely stifling a yawn. 

“Even werewolves have limits, idiot,” Stiles barely yanks at him. 

And Derek practically falls onto the bed, only barely missing Stiles. That would have been painful, having the full weight of a buff werewolf on top of him like that. In a different context he’d be totally interested, but not like this. 

“Take your pants off,” Stiles orders Derek. “You can’t sleep in jeans.” 

Derek follows orders, for once, which is something Stiles is definitely going to try and remember, because Derek loves arguing. If he’d been even remotely awake, he probably would have argued that he needed to keep his jeans on because - he is not wearing any underwear. Derek fucking Hale goes commando under his tight jeans and if Stiles had had any energy left, he would have gotten hard and paid proper tribute to that gorgeous dick. 

“And you have a pretty dick,” Stiles sighs, because this is the worst. “Of course you do. I’m sure you have a great ass too, and I’m too tired to get my hands all over it. Not fair. I demand a raincheck. A do-over. Or just a do. When we wake up, I’m doing you. Yep. Or you can do me. But I definitely need to blow you. Once I’ve had some sleep.” 

He thinks the babbling continues for a bit, but he doesn’t exactly register what he’s saying. Derek’s eyes have already closed, and Stiles barely manages to pull a blanket over the both of them before they both succumb to sleep. 

Damn sleep, that fickle bitch. 

* * *

Stiles wakes up basically surrounded on all sides by a hot (literally, Derek is like his personal heater), frustrated werewolf. Derek is still half asleep, but he’s still rather viciously scent marking Stiles by rubbing a scruffy cheek against Stiles’ sensitive neck. 

Yep, that’s going to leave a mark. Fucking awesome. 

“So I need to smell like you even more than I already do?” Stiles cannot just let this happen without commenting on it, of course. “You wolves are so into staking a claim. How about I stake my claim too, huh? Stupid werewolves and their superhealing. I was gonna leave so many hickeys on you. You’d look good with hickeys.” 

Mine, mine, mine - Stiles wants everyone who sees Derek to know that… Well, the words property of Stiles Stilinski come to mind, but that’s just stupid and possessive. And while he is ninety-nine percent sure that werewolves go for that sort of thing, Stiles is more than a little surprised at his own impulse - he’s never really wanted to claim anyone like this. 

It’s weird and stupid and he can’t believe it’s happening. Werewolf behavior is stupidly infectious, Stiles knows that from the dozens of times he’s attempted to sniff out if his Dad was doing okay after being in the thick of things at home. Stiles has been called wolfish for a human, and he’s always worn that invisible badge of honor with a semblance of pride. Right now it’s just a little weird. He keeps forgetting that he’s only seen Derek twice before this, and this is just a hook-up because he’s managed to say something to interest Derek. 

Derek thinks Stiles is interesting, and is probably even a little attracted to him. The first bit is probably his favorite thing - Derek thinks he’s the good kind of weird. 

“Stiles,” Derek actually uses his nickname for once. 

“Yes, big guy?” Stiles’ motormouth starts the second he wakes up. 

He literally has to bite back the flood of words just threatening to escape him. There are a million things he wants to say. He wants to give Derek permission to rub that scruff everywhere, because even though it feels similar to sandpaper, he will wear the marks with pride and Stiles likes how sensitive it makes his skin. He wants to make stupid grabby hands at Derek and touch him in return, wants to bicker with him in English and Polish. He just  _ wants _ . 

“Shut up and let me,” Derek grumbles, voice rough with sleep. 

“Fine, if you have to,” Stiles sighs heavily and pretends he isn’t really looking forward to finding out what Derek is going to do next. “I guess I can bear it. Being marked as yours, your scent all over me, telling all the other wolves that you were there first.” 

Okay, now he’s just taunting a (mostly) sleeping werewolf, something he’s been told not to do many times before. He didn’t listen then, and he certainly is not going to listen now. Stiles has always liked doing whatever the hell he wants, and his fear response is chronically fucked from his teenage years fighting monsters. He likes the danger, courts it sometimes, even though he’s not really in the thick of it anymore - he’s not supposed to be anyway. 

But there’s something dangerous about Derek, in a completely different way. 

“You’re a menace,” Derek tells him, before running his tongue up Stiles’ throat. 

Stiles chokes on air, because that? Really fucking hot. He’s whining in the back of his throat before he knows it, wordlessly begging for more. He hopes it translates. 

“Look who’s talking,” Stiles has to continue to argue if he’s going to have any kind of self-respect left after this. “Fuck, do that again. Yeah, that’s good. Shit, Derek.” 

That is definitely going to turn into a giant hickey that Stiles is going to display with pride. Like, he doesn’t even care that most people will think it’s tacky, and that no one can know that Derek fucking Hale gave him that hickey - he’s assuming that Derek isn’t all that open about his hook-ups, even though he’s been out for ages. There will still be a mark, and  _ Stiles _ is going to know who put it there and yeah, that would be enough. 

Of course that is the moment that real life just has to intervene. Like, Stiles is halfway (or a little more than halfway, he has no shame about that) to the best orgasm he’s had in ages, when Derek’s fucking phone rings - loudly. Which, honestly? Derek’s barely gotten a full-night’s sleep, probably, and they already need him for something else? Is this what the lifestyle of the rich and famous is truly like? Because he needs no part of that. 

Sure, his relationship with sleep is a shit show, but Derek’s is heading there too, especially if work keeps calling - quite literally in this case. 

“No, Derek,” Stiles whines as Derek actually moves to pick up. “This is why they invented do not disturb mode. So people can bang without inconvenient interruptions. Or so I’m told, because I’ve never had to use it for that particular reason. Not that I’ve never gotten laid, but my social life has never been thrilling enough to require being put on hold.” 

Embarrassing? Yes. But Stiles never would have been able to live up to Derek’s exciting life anyway, so he might as well get the embarrassing stuff out of the way before the sex. And if Derek still wants to sleep with him after that, even better - it means he’s into Stiles, stupid, lonely, friendless, loser lifestyle and all. Harsh? Yeah. Truly? Also yeah. 

“Derek Hale,” Derek picks up with the most boring greeting. 

Stiles cannot pick up the other side of the conversation, even though Derek is still half-wrapped around him (even as Derek tries to sit up), but judging by the expression on Derek’s face, it is strictly business. And therefore Stiles cannot be faulted for spicing things up a little - or a lot. 

So he puts his mouth on Derek’s collarbone and gets to work on what could have been a rather spectacular set of hickeys, had Derek not been a fucking werewolf. Still, nobody’s called Stiles a quitter (not in years, anyway), and he’s just going to keep trying to see if he can trigger the werewolf healing into getting tired enough to let Stiles mark the fuck out of Derek. If not, he’s going to have to get that “property of Stiles Stilinski” sign he’s been contemplating. 

“I have two days off,” Derek sounds a bit petulant about it. “I need sleep, Peter. Maybe not the same amount as humans do, but I still need to sleep. For about two days.” 

But that’s stupid, not just because Derek is his own person and he’s not just anyone’s property, but also because this is just sex with someone who surprisingly finds him interesting. There have been no romantic declarations, or any comments to disprove Stiles’ assumption that this is just a one-night thing while Derek is in town for this movie shoot. 

When the hickey plan doesn’t work, and boy is Stiles disappointed about that, he simply starts to move his mouth lower, and when that hardly even gets a response from Derek - rude - he figures he might as well enact the blowjob plan he’s been dying to get to for ages now. 

In fact, he’s basically drooling already, and he hasn’t even gotten started yet. 

“No, Peter,” Derek’s breath catches a little when Stiles breathes on his rapidly growing erection. 

Stiles looks up at him, and yeah, Derek is still a fucking vision, even when he’s grumpy and his hair is a mess, and he is leaning against the headboard while Stiles tries his very best to be a fucking cocktease. Maybe that will get Derek off the phone sooner - because while Stiles is absolutely down for this kind of teasing and exhibitionism, everything would be better if Derek got the chance to actively participate in this blowjob. 

“I have to go,” Derek’s voice cracks as Stiles licks at the tip. 

Derek only just manages to hang up before Stiles just, like, goes for it and sucks down a significant part of that pretty dick he’d been so impressed with the night before. He may not get to test his skills all that often, but he knows that he’s pretty damn good at this - and even better, that he actually really likes doing it. And Derek is a worthy recipient so far. 

“Alright, I’ll turn the phone off,” Derek promises, fumbling and distracted. “Jesus, Stiles. You’re ridiculous, and you’d better hope my uncle didn’t hear you. Oh,  _ fuck _ .” 

Yeah, that’s a lot better, a lot more like the usual response he gets when he puts his mouth on a guy’s dick and just slowly starts to sink down. He doesn’t have much of a gag reflex, never did, which probably makes it a bit easier for him than it is for most people. But also, he really fucking enjoys doing this, figuring out which subtle adjustments drive Derek absolutely fucking crazy for him and then just doing it more. It’s really hot to see someone just completely losing their shit because of him, and he just loves making someone else feel good.

“Stiles,” Derek groans when he pulls back to play with his foreskin a little. 

Okay, so maybe he’s playing with Derek a little - and also, he doesn’t meet a lot of uncut guys, and this is fascinating to someone who wrote a whole paper on circumcision for his econ class in high school. Yeah, it was out of nowhere and didn’t fit the course at all, but he’d gotten interested in a Wikipedia article and by the end of that spiral, the paper had been fully written and he hadn’t had time to write a new one. Plus he had a whole bunch of information about uncut dicks that he is now absolutely going to use to his advantage. 

He promised to blow Derek’s mind - or well, he promised himself - and that means he has to be better than Derek’s expecting him to be. So he’s focusing on the tip for a while, licking and sucking and teasing until Derek digs his hands into the sheets. Stiles is hoping he pops a claw at some point, because he just really wants to make Derek lose his shit. 

It’s sort of working, actually, as Stiles takes Derek a little deeper, stretching his jaw a little further because it’s a lot to take in. He likes the taste of the clean skin, of sweat, of precum on his tongue. Derek is being very polite about it though, which is less than great. 

“Just grab my hair already,” Stiles pulls back long enough to argue with Derek. “Grab it, pull a little - not like full werewolf strength please. But yeah. I like it. A lot.” 

Oh, his voice sounds nice and rough, like he’s been sucking dick for way longer than it has actually been. Probably because it’s technically still morning and his voice is always more than a little fucked when he starts his day. But he can tell it’s not just getting to him, it’s getting to Derek too. Probably another wolf thing, or maybe just a Derek Hale thing. 

And Derek follows orders rather beautifully, putting a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and trying to grab at his hair. This is just one of the many reasons he doesn’t have a buzzcut anymore - he likes getting his partners to pull his hair a little. 

(Yes, his brain never stops, even when he’s doing some excellent blowjob magic.)

To tease, he moves a hand to fondle Derek’s balls, to touch them and then move a bit further down, almost reaching Derek’s hole. He teases the soft skin and hears Derek let out a couple of choked off curses that don’t actually sound like actual words. Stiles renews his efforts, sucking a bit harder as he goes further and further down until he can let Derek into his throat. 

That, combined with a single finger playing with the skin around Derek’s entrance, is what does it. With a growl, Derek comes, right down Stiles’ throat. 

Stiles realizes that he is rock hard in his underwear, leaking even. All of that went away for a while because he had something else to focus on, but right now he’s right on the cusp of an excellent orgasm, and Derek is apparently too come-drunk to do anything about it. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Derek is actually out of breath. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Stiles is only pouting a little bit as he figures he might as well do it himself. “The highest of compliments even, ah, fuck, Derek.” 

Derek manages to interrupt his efforts though, by pulling him into his lap with a single fluid move, letting Stiles rub off a little on those ridiculous abs while Derek jerks him off with surprisingly soft hands. He’s good at it too, quick to find out just what Stiles likes - which has him coming his brains out in about thirty seconds. 

That doesn’t leave Derek with the best impression of his stamina. 

“That’s good,” Derek’s eyes are half-lidded, almost like a cat. “Now I smell like you.” 

If only Stiles were still eighteen, he’d get it up again for round two immediately. 

And maybe this time Derek will smile during. He misses those bunny teeth already. 

* * *

After two days spent in a hotel room, with Stiles being completely irresponsible and calling in sick, he actually feels a whole lot better. Sure, there is some muscle soreness in weird places, because the sex got surprisingly acrobatic when Derek forgot that Stiles was actually just human and couldn’t do everything a wolf can do. But he’s gotten more sleep in those two days than he has in the two weeks before - mostly naps in between rounds, but at least six to seven hours a night as well. They didn’t leave the room the whole time. 

But after two days, reality intervened and Derek had to leave. Which means that Stiles is alone again, avoiding his roommate and trying to make up for his absence in class by working even crazier hours just to get all his prep work done and his own papers handed in on time. Somehow he still manages to get a solid five to six hours of sleep at night, which means he isn’t pissing off his roommate nearly as much. Score! 

“What the hell happened to you?” The roommate in question asks him regularly now. “You’re sleeping, you’re not being nearly as weird and you are still covered in hickeys. Even if you did nothing but that for two days, most of it should have faded by now.” 

He’s not completely wrong about that, but Stiles has always bruised like a peach, so he hardly even worries about it. The werewolves in his life keep their distance, because Stiles apparently still looks and smells very much claimed to them, even when days and weeks pass - and yeah, that’s when Stiles starts to worry a little bit. 

Because he knows that scent fades, and hickeys do as well - and while most of the hickeys are mostly gone, there is a particularly persistent one on his neck that is not fading at all. Or well, he thinks it’s a hickey, but he can’t actually see it because it’s on the back of his neck. He just knows that it still feels tender and used after two weeks - and he’s not desperate enough to ask his stupid roommate to have a look at it. He’s not giving him any reason to get even more suspicious about what’s going on with Stiles these days. 

Stiles is about one hundred and eighty-seven percent sure that the weirdness has to do with Derek. But he’s two hundred and twelve percent sure that he is not going to ask Derek about what’s going on. Not just because Derek is once again working crazy hours, but because it’s embarrassing and weird and he’s having enough trouble getting any time with Derek without ruining it with stupid questions about marks and actually getting sleep. 

Honestly, he should be happy he’s finally sleeping again. 

“You look so much better,” his Dad is not subtle about his relief. 

“You’re implying I looked awful before,” Stiles exaggeratedly pouts at his webcam. “And that’s just rude Dad. I don’t comment on your wrinkles or on how your uniform is definitely tighter than it was last time I saw you wear it. It’s called being polite.” 

There isn’t actually that much of a change, but since his Dad started seeing someone - he won’t tell Stiles about it, but he knows his old man well enough to be able to tell when something is going on - he’s gotten a bit more sensitive about the way he looks. He calls himself old more often, which means the woman he’s seeing is definitely younger than he is. Stiles knows who he wants it to be, but he’s mostly given up on that pipe dream when he left. 

He fucked that up for him too. 

“So you do know what that means,” the Sheriff just grins at him. 

“Apparently my parents raised me right after all,” Stiles responds, and pretends not to flinch at the reminder of his mother’s absence. “It’s not like I was raised by wolves, like some other people I -. And we can both pretend I didn’t bring that up at all. That would be great.” 

Sure, he could just be talking about Scott and the others, but he is pretty sure that excuse is not going to fly with his old man. Because he knows that Stiles is not in touch with any of them anymore, because he’s made a clean break. Because he’s not supposed to spend time around wolves here, even though they’re basically everywhere. Stiles is just good at recognizing them and then pretending he has no idea what’s going on. 

With one exception. Derek fucking Hale. 

“So you’re still hanging out with wolves?” Dad knows him far too well. 

“In a manner of speaking,” Stiles is going to be really, really evasive about this. “The wolves out here are just really obvious, so I recognize them quickly. Apparently I’m still a wolf magnet, because they’re everywhere here. Not that I spend time with them for anything other than completely professional reasons, of course. I don’t do that anymore.” 

Is he lying? Not really, but also yes. Because while none of the time he’s spent with Derek could in any way be described as professional, it also has nothing to do with the type of pack stuff he used to be involved in back home. It’s not the kind of dangerous thing that his Dad is used to worrying about, so maybe he can get away with this stupid slip of the tongue and some minor avoidance. Because he’s not putting himself in danger. Not really. 

“Who are they?” The Sheriff goes right into interrogation mode. 

While Stiles absolutely appreciates the gender neutral language, he is also about ninety-four percent sure that his Dad has figured out that he’s lying about something. And because he knows what Stiles looks like when he’s not sleeping and putting himself in danger, he knows the only other way to make the puzzle pieces fit is Stiles dating a wolf. 

Which he isn’t. He is not dating Derek. He is texting Derek still - mostly in English, but some Polish phrases show up from time to time - and they’ve called once. But that quickly turned into phone sex rather than an actual conversation. 

“Who is who?” Stiles knows this won’t work, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try. 

“The wolf you’re seeing,” John Stilinski squints at the screen. “I can’t tell if that’s a hickey or a bite mark on your neck, but I’m not stupid.” 

This is why his Dad is the best damn detective he knows. This is why his Dad figured out the whole werewolf thing even before Stiles had told him a thing. This is why he is so damn proud to be John Stilinski’s son, even though sometimes he’s still so mad at his Dad for figuring out everything about everyone and everything, and not being able to figure out how bad things were getting for Stiles until it nearly got him killed. 

But blaming him for that would just be patently unfair. He does it anyway. 

“You can see it?” Stiles knows he’s given the game away as soon as he says it. 

Well, he does want some answers, and seeing as his Dad has already seen it, he might as well just listen to his Dad - for once - and not give him any cause to worry about him. 

“Show me,” his Dad orders, and Stiles sighs dramatically before giving in. 

“I’m fine, Dad,” he says even as he turns around and shows the back of his neck. “I am not hurting in any way, any damage you may see is completely consensual and happened during activities I promised never to tell you anything about.” 

They’d made a pact the one time his Dad caught him with his pants down - Stiles did not need to discuss details, because that would just traumatize them both, but he had to be honest with his Dad about who he was with and if he was being safe. And he’d promised that he’d talk about it if he ever found someone who wanted to stick around. Technically he hasn’t actually broken that promise because of Derek. Because, well, does Derek even want to stick around? 

Phone sex and sexting and Polish pick-up lines do not a relationship make. 

“Tell me about them,” once again his Dad is being annoyingly awesome about this. “This werewolf who likes to get their teeth in your neck. It doesn’t look too deep, but it also doesn’t look like it’s healing like those other faded hickeys. Yes, son, I see those as well.” 

Did his Dad get a better camera? Is Stiles’ laptop camera actually that good? He is getting closer to the camera, so that probably helped, but it’s still a bit awkward that his Dad can tell just how many hickeys Derek had left. It’s a good thing his Dad is only looking at his neck, because the hickeys in more delicate areas are not something that anyone else needs to see. 

“I’m not so much dating him,” Stiles starts, and watches his Dad cringe. 

“Of course you’re not,” the man says as he sighs heavily. 

Well, he’s not going to lie to his Dad anymore than he absolutely has to. He is not dating MTV Movie Award winner and Golden Globe nominee Derek Hale. That would be crazy. 

“It’s not that I’m not fond of him,” Stiles is just trying to find the right words to explain Derek fucking Hale to his Dad. “You’d probably like him. He speaks Polish too, though he refuses to tell me where and how he learned. He’s really smart, a bit grumpy at first but he mellows out once you get to know him. He just works all the damn time and we hardly even get to spend any time together. You can’t build a relationship off texts and the occasional phone call.” 

Stiles turns back to face the camera, because he doesn’t want Derek’s mark to pull focus any longer. He doesn’t want to contemplate what kind of werewolf magic could have made that mark stick around for this long. He knows he isn’t a wolf - Derek isn’t an Alpha, and Stiles definitely would have sensed it - but he definitely knows that something has changed. 

He just… Kind of does not want to know what, exactly, and why. 

“He didn’t leave those hickeys through the phone,” John Stilinski has to point that out. 

“We spent a couple days together when he was off work,” Stiles shrugs, trying to play it cool even though he knows it won’t work. “He’s good to me, Dad. He makes me smile. He makes me happy, actually. I sleep better when I’m with him. That’s probably why you think I look good.” 

That is not something he has voiced out loud before. He knows he’s sleeping more still, and that he’s never had a better night’s sleep than he’s had those nights with Derek, but he hasn’t been able to talk to anyone else about it - and he really doesn’t want to talk to himself about any of this, really. Talking to himself is another thing that makes him feel uncertain and unstable, like there are two of him again. And that was bad. Really bad. 

“You do,” Dad seems reluctant to admit that. “I still don’t like the look of that mark, Stiles. I think you should look into it. I’m pretty sure it’s not bad - at least not yet - but…” 

Neither of them does well with uncertainty anymore, especially not when it comes to the supernatural stuff. They do better with research and results, and honestly no one can blame them for that after what they’ve been through. So seeing as his Dad cannot even finish his sentence, Stiles knows that he can’t pretend that the mark isn’t there. Not anymore. 

“It’s best to be sure,” Stiles finishes that sentence, a lump in his throat. 

“Exactly,” John nods decisively. “Now, how long have you been not-dating this guy?” 

Great, he is still going to get that interrogation, even though he’s just explained that it is not a relationship and it is not likely to ever become one. That’s just one of the many, many perks of being the Sheriff’s son. 

But then again, he really wouldn’t have it any other way. 

* * *

One night, about a month after he’s last seen Derek in the flesh - and what flesh - he finds himself awake in the middle of the night again. It sucks, because he’d been doing better, and he knows that this one sleepless night is just a real harbinger of doom - one night turns into two turns into weeks of insomnia and roaming the streets of LA in the middle of the night. 

He finds himself back in front of the grocery store where he met Derek, even though he has not consciously looked for it since that day. He just finds himself in the very spot where he first saw Derek, hiding behind a terrible disguise and looking for snacks that he couldn’t get from that particular store, because of mountain ash and prejudice. At least, Stiles knows enough about most hunter families to know that it is most definitely prejudice rather than actually saving the people who need to be saved. Because sometimes those people are wolves. 

Standing in front of the store as he is, the owner is probably going to get suspicious of him really quickly - though anyone can make a hunter suspicious just by standing somewhere close to the supernatural. Though this time Stiles could really do without drawing any kind of attention to himself, especially seeing as the bite mark on his neck refuses to heal, and he knows it’s going to get him exposed as the wolf-fucker that he is. That’s not a good title to have when surrounded by hunters, so Stiles would prefer to remain incognito. 

Just a regular student, no teeth marks at all, no hidden magic skills that have been flaring up a bit more over the last few weeks. No, he’s nothing special. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Derek is suddenly standing behind him. 

Derek fucking Hale, here! In front of the same store they… How? Derek is supposed to be on the East Coast still, doing some events and the like for his upcoming movie. He hasn’t mentioned anything about when he’d be back, and Stiles has kind of taken that to mean that this is what Derek would consider a gentle dumping. Though that surprised him a little, because Derek has never been all that gentle about anything. 

Stiles figured he’d just say it if he was bored of their thing. 

“What the actual fuck?” Stiles is pretty sure that covers most of his feelings. 

“Surprise,” Derek is actually teasing him, that dick. “I just got back half an hour ago, and instead of getting some sleep, I go here. For no reason, I thought. But you’re here.” 

What are the odds of both of them just finding themselves in front of this store at the exact same time? Especially seeing as it’s the middle of the night again, at a time when they both should really be sleeping. Sure, sometimes real life is stranger than fiction, but Stiles does not want to discount any kind of magical influence - or something wolf-related. Because he did not consciously choose to go here, but he arrived here anyway. It’s suspicious. 

But Derek looks good, damn good - much less like he’s about to collapse from weeks and weeks of night shoots. He looks like he’s been getting actual sleep even with the crazy days he’s working. He’s wearing the same disguise uniform, so Stiles can’t really see all of him, but Derek is looking him in the eye… And he looks happier. 

“I missed you, Miguel,” Stiles knows not to use his name in public. 

“Please don’t make that into a thing,” Derek still really dislikes the nickname, apparently. 

It’s stupid how much he likes having inside jokes like this with Derek - not because he’s Derek fucking Hale, but because Stiles is a firm believer that having a ton of inside jokes with someone is a great way to build a relationship with someone. Now, it can be a platonic or sexual or romantic relationship, but having inside jokes means that you have at least some kind of chemistry with this person. And it is all about the chemistry. 

“Am I supposed to use your name?” Stiles feels like that argument is always a winner. 

“Yes,” Derek responds and Stiles gapes at him. 

That is not what he said before. That is not something that he’s ever said before, and yeah, it’s not like two guys talking and one of them having the same name as someone famous is going to matter to anyone, but… Stiles still wants to believe it’s a big step. 

“What do you mean, yes?” Stiles knows he’s seconds away from flailing. “You mean I can just be casually chatting with you out here on the street in the middle of the night and just be all, Derek, I really think you should tell me where you’re staying and if you’re staying, because two days really wasn’t enough? I can just say that?”

His voice cracks like it’s puberty all over again, because he’s having too many feelings to use it in any kind of normal fashion. It’s embarrassing, and Derek is clearly laughing at him already - and not just because of his voice, but Stiles is going to try really hard not to give a shit about that right now. Because Derek is here with him and he’s grinning like an asshole and not caring if people see him with Stiles - if he’s reading between the lines properly. 

“You can,” Derek is already preparing to give him shit. “And you don’t even have to say any of it in Polish. If you were to say it, I’d tell you I have an apartment across town that’s probably closer to campus than your apartment. It might be convenient for you to spend some time there.”

Convenient? Fucking convenient? Is that Derek fucking Hale trying to play it cool? Because that’s what it sounds like. Stiles is about eighty-nine percent sure that’s what he means. 

“What the fuck?” Stiles has to get that out, again. 

“Date me, maybe?” Derek has the audacity to say that with a straight face. 

He doesn’t crack up right away, but Stiles can tell that Derek is pretty much dying to laugh - it’s not hard to tell if you know him a little. And he’s probably just not letting himself smile because he knows Stiles is a little obsessed with his bunny teeth, still. Probably always will be. 

“I can’t believe you right now,” Stiles wants to pout about it a little before saying yes. 

Of course he is going to say yes - the guy he has a stupid crush on is asking him to go steady, only about half as lame as that. Because yes, Derek gets all the points for having the balls to ask him, and for doing the whole callback to Stiles’ awkward way to get his phone number. But he is also kind of making fun of Stiles and he’s being an idiot by drawing attention to himself in front of a store run by hunters. Does he have no sense of self-preservation anymore? 

“You don’t need to ask me out just so I’ll sleep with you again,” Stiles is just going to try to manage his expectations. “You do know that, right? I still have a bite mark on my neck, Der-Bear. Your claim is pretty well staked, still. Also, you already know I like you.” 

What? Stiles has been pretty damn obvious about how into Derek he is, with the sleeping with him and the sexting and the flirting in Polish and the fucking Carly Rae references. Derek should really know it by now, but apparently he is going to need a reminder, even though he hasn’t been half as clear about his own feelings. Because he’s that elusive bad boy actor type, they don’t actually know how to communicate feelings when they’re not in front of a camera. 

Asshole remark? Probably. But he’s nervous and rambling about being bitten in front of a store with more than one hidden reserves of wolfsbane bullets. Cut him some slack. 

“Bite mark?” Derek does that asshole raising a single eyebrow thing. 

“I’m sorry, did you forget?” It is definitely Stiles’ turn to do the mocking. “Let me just refresh your memory real quick. Back of the neck, right there. I know I bruise like a peach, but this is a lot.” 

Derek reaches for the mark, pulling the back of Stiles’ jacket aside a bit to get the full view of the near perfect impression of his human teeth. Bunny teeth included, probably - Stiles wouldn’t know, because he still hasn’t been able to get a look at it, because Derek just had to bite him in a completely impossible location. That’s just like him to do that. 

“Fuck,” is all Derek has to say. 

“Is that all you have to say?” Stiles thinks he has every right to voice his indignant thoughts right about now. “My Dad saw this, Derek. Now, he knows you’re a wolf, and that doesn’t really matter, but I thought it was best he didn’t know you left this over a month ago.” 

When Derek touches the mark, it’s like everything Stiles was feeling when Derek left that mark comes back to the forefront of his mind. And since they were in private then, doing things that they probably shouldn’t repeat in public, Stiles is immediately uncomfortably turned on and equally hoping Derek will keep touching it or that he’ll take his fingers away ASAP until they get to a private place where Derek can touch him to his heart’s content. 

“I claimed you,” Derek just sounds awed and not even close to worried. 

“I would say gross if it didn’t sound kinda hot and possessive,” Stiles ponders. 

Is Derek even half as turned on as Stiles is right now? Because that’s just not fair! Sure, it’s not like Stiles minds that he’s apparently super sensitive to Derek’s touch there, but he also kind of doesn’t like Derek having that kind of advantage over him. Yes, he’s that petty. 

“Wolves do that when they’re trying to keep someone interested,” Derek sounds off somehow. 

Stiles turns around to see exactly what Derek’s stupidly gorgeous face is doing, only to find him blushing a little. He yanks off the sunglasses (it’s douchy to wear them at night anyway), and pulls at the ball cap until he can look Derek in the eyes properly. When Derek isn’t attempting to look away out of some stupid feelings of embarrassment, of course. 

“Yeah, how about you elaborate on that,” Stiles tries to nudge him. 

“When a wolf likes someone very much,” Derek just decided to be an asshole about it, probably to cover for his embarrassment, “and they worry about the other person’s safety, they can claim a human. It’s supposed to protect them, and give the human incentive to stick close to their wolf, so that the wolf can keep them safe. I… I’ve never done it before.” 

Humming the chorus of Like A Virgin probably doesn’t make Derek want to be any nicer to him, but Stiles thinks it’s kind of hilarious, so he does it anyway. For once, he feels like he’s got the upper hand here, and he’s going to take advantage of it, at least for a little while. 

“You’re a dick,” Derek tells him, when he doesn’t stop right away. 

“But you like me,” Stiles bats his eyelashes. “You like me very much. And you want to keep me close, so you put a giant werewolf homing beacon on the back of my neck.” 

Stiles kind of wants to smack himself for using the word werewolf in front of this particular shop, but it’s too late now. Though he does kind of want to move away from the whole ‘standing on a street corner in the middle of the night’ thing. Because he wants to kiss Derek later, and he wants to go home with him, and they can’t do any of that if they stay here. 

Though they probably need to go to Stiles’ apartment to grab his stuff first. 

“It only lasts for a couple of moon cycles,” Derek ducks his head, and Stiles is stupidly charmed by the gesture. “It’ll start fading if we stay close for a while. I’m… I’m not working for a little while. I told my uncle to shove it and let me pick my next project on my own. So I have some time. Especially if you join us for lunch at some point. He wants to meet you.” 

Once again, Derek is being stupidly adorable about this, and Stiles is having some trouble handling all of it. But only in the best way, because he’d been pretty sure that his thing with Derek had no future - just a fling that he would later embarrass his hypothetical children and grandchildren with. Instead, Derek wants to be in a relationship with him, one that’s public enough that he’s telling his uncle (and agent?) about him. 

“You told your uncle about me?” Stiles is trying really hard not to swoon right now. 

“You told your Dad about me,” Derek seems to think that’s an answer. 

It kind of is. Because it’s family - their only family. Stiles has read some gossip articles about Derek’s family. Enough of them to know he doesn’t ever need to ask about how Derek’s parents and siblings are doing - just his uncle. Even though he’s probably crazy and an asshole, according to US Weekly. But then again, what do they know? 

“I didn’t tell him we’re dating,” Stiles grabs Derek’s hand, just because he can. “But I am definitely doing that. Soon. And you’re meeting him. Because you know he won’t believe me if I tell him. This is the stuff of fanfics, dude.” 

Not that Derek ever needs to know about the kind of stuff that people are writing about him in the darkest corners of the internet. He’s got enough to deal with in other corners, in the movie reviews and the Oscar buzz and all of the stuff that comes with being an A-list actor. It’s not a world Stiles knows a lot about - he’ll probably need a crash course soon, and parts of it are probably really going to suck. But well, he has a feeling it might be worth it. 

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek sighs heavily. “I can’t believe this is the idiot I’m dating.” 

The exasperation is kind of ruined by the way he grins at the word ‘dating’, even showing Stiles a hint of those adorable bunny teeth for about half a second. It’s progress, and it’s adorable. 

“Let me buy you a snack to celebrate,” Stiles points at the store. 

“Shut up,” Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t actually eat any of that crap. Now, do you want to grab your stuff or are we going straight to mine? I don’t think you’ll need a lot of clothes.” 

Stiles cannot keep calling in sick just because he’d rather have sex with Derek, so maybe he actually will need some clothes. He just does not want to spend any time arguing with Derek about it when they could be getting a move on already. He’s got plans. 

“You do not play fair,” Stiles announces loudly to anyone who is willing to listen, but he drags Derek in the direction of his apartment anyway. 

He’s about two-hundred and seventeen percent sure that his roommate will be really fucking pissed. He’s about nine-hundred percent sure he doesn’t care anymore, because he’s finally found a cure for his insomnia. 

Regular sex with a werewolf. With Derek fucking Hale. 

Just Derek. Stiles’ Derek. 

Mind. Blown. 


End file.
